“What?”
“I guess she hurt herself on the boardwalk by the bait shop the other day, and she’s suing Miss Perry for not keeping the buildings up to code. And get this, she’s suing for two mil.”
“Two million dollars?” Jaymie was jolted. Hoppy, on her lap, reacted with a yip when she squeezed him too hard, so she set him down and he retreated to his basket by the fireplace. “I ran into her having lunch with Fergus Baird at the Queensville Inn and saw the boot she was wearing; she even told me what happened, but not that she was suing.”
“I know, right? It’s terrible! How can she do that and live with herself? Between you and me and the corner, they’re in deep financial hot water.”
“Jon and Bev Hastings?”
“Yup.”
“Didn’t I say that exact thing? It’s tough being in business even for go-getters like Jakob.” Their financial troubles meant that they were likely having to find ways to make a living, maybe outside of the shop. Did that include breaking and entering? He was in the mix for whomever had broken into Miss Perry’s home and stolen the silver. With Bev as his accomplice, maybe?
“They’ve managed to eke out a living so far, but the last few years have been tough. I wouldn’t have said anything, but there’s something off about this whole thing, Bev and her injury.” She paused and sighed again.
“What do you mean? Val, what’s going on? I can tell you’re worried.”
“I am worried, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t be known to have said anything,” she said fretfully. “You know how I feel about my career. Privacy is vitally important among a physician, a patient and a pharmacist. I consider that sacred. People trust me with their secrets.”
“I know that, Val. You’re one of the most principled people I know, and I mean that sincerely. I know how seriously you take the privacy of your patients.” Jaymie waited, certain there was more.
“But I’m also fiercely opposed to scams and phonies. I’ve reported doctors who misuse or mis-prescribe medications. Sometimes, though, the things I learn don’t fall within the limits of my authority as a pharmacist, and yet . . . I can’t let it go.” She sighed heavily. “This is one of those times.”
“Okay, I think I’m getting the connection. Something about Bev Hastings’s lawsuit against Miss Perry is hinky.”
“Keep talking.”
“So, either the accident didn’t happen, or maybe she wasn’t hurt as bad as she says,” Jaymie continued. “But . . . how would you know that if you weren’t there? Is it . . . maybe something about the doctor who is providing the information in support of the lawsuit?”
“You’re warm.”
Jakob came back and plunked down beside her on the sofa, gazing at her quizzically. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. I’ll tell you after, she mouthed to him. “I’m guessing you know something about him, like . . . he’s got a reputation for being dishonest?”
“Bingo! Thank you.” She heaved a gusty sigh of relief. “So, now that you’ve guessed, I’ll tell you this much: the doctor who diagnosed her severe leg tendon strain is one I’ve dealt with before over problems with his prescribing patterns, especially with opioids. He most definitely has a reputation.”
“Oh. Oh!” Jaymie gasped. “I think I know who you mean. Joel said a local doctor was his best customer when it came to ordering painkillers. He thought it was awesome; said he made more money from him than from the rest of the doctors in Wolverhampton combined.” She told Valetta who she was talking about and named the clinic.
“That’s the guy. I’ve had to check a lot of his prescriptions, question the dosages, and even ask why a patient was refilling his prescription after only two weeks, when it should last a month. I’ve tried to work with him, but it’s getting more difficult. I’m on the verge of reporting him for opioid over-prescription. That’s a serious step, and I don’t take it lightly.”
“And you think there’s something wrong with Bev’s accident.”
“I happen to know the doctor has signed off on questionable paperwork before, but there wasn’t enough to report him. I’m . . . concerned.” Valetta was silent for a long moment, then went on. “Jaymie, I know I shouldn’t say this, but Bev’s injured—and I’m using air quotes when I say injured—leg is a godsend to her and Jon financially. Money from a lawsuit, or more likely an insurance settlement, could save their home. I know that’s on the line if the business fails. I never thought she’d do that—sue, I mean—especially for so much, given how kind Miss Perry has been to them. God forgive me if I’m being judgmental or cynical, but I don’t think it happened . . . the fall, I mean. Or if it did, I don’t think she’s actually hurt.” She sighed. “I feel bad even saying that; I like them both. I don’t know what to do about it, but I don’t want that poor old woman sued unless it’s legit. Her insurance will pay, but it’s going to be hard on her nevertheless.”
Jaymie was silent. Miss Perry had so much else to worry about, between someone trying to kill her and an actual murder on her property. This was the last thing she needed. “Okay, Val, I have a few contacts I’m going to mine about this. I’ll talk to you Wednesday night.”
“What was that all about?” Jakob asked when she hung up.
She told him, and also told him what she intended to do about it.
• • •
JAYMIE HAD IGNORED A TEXT FROM NAN ON SATURDAY, given she had other things on her mind, and she had deliberately stayed off her phone on Sunday. Sunday was family day; unless a meteor was headed for the earth, Jaymie, Jakob and Jocie spent it together.
But Monday morning inevitably dawned. She got Jocie off to school and Jakob off to work, then sat down on the sofa with her tablet and a cup of coffee to catch up on email and read the news. The Wolverhampton Weekly Howler—which was in hard copy only weekly; they updated with new stories online daily—had covered the murder of Fergus Baird. It was huge news. The police wouldn’t comment except with bare-bones information, but Nan had a new reporter who was resourceful, sneaky, and had some kind of source within the police department who spilled too much, on occasion. The reporter had also been knocking on a lot of doors: neighbors on Winding Woods Lane near the site of the tragedy, as well as Fergus Baird’s neighbors, friends and employees in Wolverhampton. She read the previous day’s coverage, which had a lot of information she hadn’t known.
Fergus Baird, age fifty-three, owner of Baird Construction, died by ligature strangulation with a weapon or tool that was not found at the scene but was assumed to be a belt, rope, or a length of something equally tough and thick. That explained the purpling of the face, Jaymie thought. Baird had been killed somewhere and then, some hours before his discovery, had been put where she had later found him.
To Jaymie that indicated that the killer must be someone strong enough to carry or drag him all the way down the riverbank and up the slope to the bushes. Or there was more than one conspirator. Movies and TV made it look easy, but she had once talked to Bernie about that very topic, and the police officer pointed out how difficult it was to drag a dead weight, especially when it was a human. They had tried a little experiment, with Jaymie attempting to drag Bernie, her hands under her arms and Bernie offering no help. She could do it, barely, but then she was strong for a woman, and Bernie was smaller than her, though heavy for her size because of her toned musculature. Dragging a body up a hill and into bushes? That was difficult.
The news report went on to state that the police thought the body had been moved down the riverbank using an ATV; tire tracks had been found. That explained moving the body, but didn’t explain why. Why did the body have to be discovered on Miss Perry’s property?
Nan would be furious with her, Jaymie thought, given that she found the body and yet had been out of touch all weekend, but the reporter had done very well in ferreting out information. Picking up her phone, she scanned it. There were several angry texts from Nan, becoming more and more frantic, until one screamed in all caps WHERE ARE YOU, JAYMIE? A
year ago it would have worried her, but maybe Mrs. Bellwood was right: her priorities had shifted. She had a husband and a child, and they came first.
She would deal with Nan in a while, after she read the rest of the story on the crime.
Baird had been scheduled to meet with someone, his secretary said, when he left for the day on Friday. He didn’t have the meeting in his day-timer, nor on his computer, which was now in the hands of the police, but the article said nothing about his phone. That was where busy people kept their whole lives, on their phones. They could be closing in on someone even now.
An autopsy had been done and findings would be released soon. Though the cause of death had already been leaked, there would be more information coming, at some point. Next of kin—two daughters, a son, a daughter- and son-in-law, three very young grandchildren, and an ex-wife—had been notified. They all resided away from Wolverhampton in Maryland, where Baird had lived for many years after leaving Queensville in the early eighties. Reached by telephone, family members had nothing to say except to ask for privacy. His children were on their way to Queensville. So his family didn’t even live in the same state, and were unlikely suspects.
No mention was made of the nutmeg grater in the mouth; the reporter probably didn’t know about it. She would not be the one to tell Nan about that, nor was she ready to be interviewed by the reporter. She pictured the scene again. She had assumed that the grater in his mouth was the one missing from Miss Perry’s collection, but something wasn’t right. Morgan had said an acorn-shaped grater was missing. The one in Baird’s mouth was shaped like a walnut. Had Morgan misspoken? A nut is a nut, to some. Or . . . was she purposely misleading Jaymie?
Hoppy whined at her feet, and she picked him up, cuddling him on her lap. “I suppose I’d better text Nan, right? Especially since I need to see her today about something else.”
She texted Nan, then went about her morning business, including a walk for Hoppy. The days were getting chilly. She put his coat on for him and donned a thick sweater under her windbreaker, but woman and dog were still both shivering when they returned to the cabin. Weather was so completely unpredictable. She remembered one Canadian Thanksgiving years before, in early October, that was so hot her sister had had to have the air-conditioning on while she baked the turkey for their family, who always gathered at Becca’s London, Ontario, home for that holiday.
But this year October was setting in chilly and damp. She fed both animals, did dishes and tidied the kitchen. As she worked she thought a lot about Miss Perry. The tangle of troubles kept knotting and fracturing in her mind: who tried to kill her; why someone tried to kill her; was it the same person who killed Fergus Baird and put the nutmeg grater in his mouth? Was that a warning, or something else?
And was the nutmeg grater Miss Perry’s? It had to be, Jaymie thought, coming back to that again and again. Sterling silver Georgian nutmeg graters did not turn up every day. It may not be the acorn one but a different one missing from the collection, or perhaps Morgan misspoke. And if that was true, then whoever killed Baird had access to Miss Perry’s collection. That access could come in the form of someone close to her, like Morgan, or the thief who stole her silver. And Jaymie still didn’t know a few things, like . . . who else other than Estelle Arden was Miss Perry scheduled to see the day she fell and hurt herself? Had the nutmeg grater gone missing before Jaymie’s first visit, or after?
• • •
When Jaymie reached Wolverhampton, she dropped in on Nan and, as expected, her editor grilled her on what she had seen. She kept it brief, and factual. She let Nan record a brief statement, saying, “I was visiting the house and heard a dog barking, so I went to investigate. I chased the dog, who had a cat cornered under the shrubbery along the ridge above the river, and that’s when I saw the body of Mr. Fergus Baird, who I recognized. I quickly got hold of the dog and backed away, calling nine one one. And that’s it.”
Nan was dryly amused and congratulated her on giving the most boring statement ever about a spectacular murder case.
“I do my best,” Jaymie said. “Now, what I’m really here for is this . . .” And she gave her a scoop. Like a bloodhound on the trail, Nan was immediately focused on what could be an important breaking news story for the local area, and already doing research and making calls as Jaymie left.
Jaymie returned to Queensville and headed to the dockside buildings, parking in the municipal parking lot used by cottagers who didn’t want to take their cars over to Heartbreak Island, those who kept boats in the marina, as well as by those who patronized the two stores. She had been in the feed store a few times, but never the bait store. Fishing wasn’t her thing, neither was boating. She and her family were content to take the ferry over to their summer cottage on Heartbreak Island.
She examined the wooden walkway that fronted the four shops: the two boarded up and long abandoned, and the other two, the feed and tack store and the bait shop, open for business. In front of one of the abandoned ones was a raw, broken board cordoned off with yellow nylon rope looped around a piece of wood, with a handmade Danger sign nailed to it. Was that where Bev had hurt herself? Why would she be there, so close to one of the abandoned buildings? It made no sense. She bent down closer; there were divots on the wood, like they had been hammered upon to break them.
Jon Hastings, in the door of the bait shop, turned the Closed sign over to expose the Open side. He saw her kneeling down by the broken board, nodded, then turned away. Though he had seemed a cheery sort the day of the melee, today he appeared troubled. Jaymie entered the small, dim shop, the cash desk by the plate glass window and the rest of the space filled with shelves holding souvenir T-shirts, hats, propane tanks, blue tarps and lengths of nylon rope in packaging, the walls covered in pegboard stocked with plastic packaged lures, bobbers, fishing line and weights. “Mr. Hastings, good morning. Is Bev not here today?”
“Nope,” he grunted. “Got a doctor’s appointment in Wolverhampton.”
“I understand she hurt her leg. Was it on that broken section of the board walkway by one of the abandoned shops?”
He nodded, his solemn expression not revealing anything. She considered her next move. She had a few suspicions, but no idea how to proceed. “I can’t imagine what she was doing right up next to the building.”
His eyes narrowed, he said, “What are you inferring?”
Implying. The word was implying, Jaymie thought, but did not say. “Nothing. I just . . .” She had been hoping to ask him about his wife’s relationship with Fergus Baird, but there was no delicate way to approach such a topic. Also, it could impede the police investigation. She should tell the police about seeing Bev Hastings with Baird, if she truly wanted to get to the bottom of everything. “It’s nothing. I’d better get going.”
He didn’t say another word as she left. She walked along the boardwalk deep in thought.
“What were you talking to my husband about?”
She looked up; Bev Hastings limped toward her from the parking lot. “I was looking for you.”
The woman, dressed casually in jeans and a windbreaker over a red bait shop T-shirt, was still using a cane and had the boot on her foot. She stumped toward Jaymie. “Why?”
The wind whirled some leaves along the walkway and into the marina, where they drifted between boats. “You know Fergus Baird is dead,” she said.
Bev nodded. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m the one who found him. At Miss Perry’s place. You were friends with him, right?”
She shrugged.
“You sure looked like close friends while you were having lunch.”
She stumped closer to Jaymie, anger reddening her plump face. “What are you saying? Just say it. Say what’s on your mind.”
What was on her mind was complicated and full of twists and turns. She wanted to know more about the silver flatware and the robbery from Miss Perry, but it was unwise to ask those questions. However, one thing did occur to her that she
blurted out before she thought it through. “Does this,” Jaymie said, waving her hand at the boot, “ . . . your injury and your lawsuit against Miss Perry, have anything to do with Fergus Baird? Did he put you up to it to try to influence Miss Perry to sell her marina property?”
Her cheeks reddened, but she stayed silent for a long minute, and her expression blanked. “What a terrible thing to say,” she finally hissed, her expression venomous, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re an awful person, do you know that?” Her voice was choked with tears.
Jaymie steeled herself against the urge to apologize. The woman’s hesitation had spoken volumes. “I don’t know you, Bev. It happens. People do make fake claims.” Too late she realized that if the newspaper did an investigation, and the insurance company followed up, Bev Hastings would immediately link it back to her. This was a mistake, one she normally didn’t make.
“So you think I’m a thief and a cheat? Thanks a bunch, lady.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Next you’ll be accusing me of murder!”
“I’m sorry,” Jaymie said. “Finding Fergus Baird like I did . . . it’s upset me. Forget I said anything.” She walked away, to her SUV. There seemed no way for her to solve any of the current dilemmas on her own: who robbed Miss Perry; who tried to kill Miss Perry; who murdered Fergus Baird. There was no indication the three events were even related, though it seemed a little far-fetched to think that three separate assailants were responsible. She drove up to Miss Perry’s home. The police were gone. There was a car in the drive with the nursing company logo on it.
Skip answered the door and looked relieved it was Jaymie. He grabbed her sleeve and pulled her into the hall. “I’m so glad you came. I was about to call Mrs. Stubbs to get your phone number. I’m worried.”
“Skip, what’s going on? Is Miss Perry okay?”
“She is right now. In fact, she’s improved so much I’m not sure I can justify staying here any longer.”
No Grater Danger Page 16
